Smile Like You Mean It
by 0ptimuspenguin
Summary: AU, sequel to Physicals. Gilbert realizes that he's kinda-sorta-totally in love with a certain German doctor - who happens to be hiding a big secret. Naturally, it's time to get wasted. And maybe go home with a hot Russian lawyer. GerPru, RussPruss, full version moved to tumblr sorry


**Disclaimer: Nope.**

**A/N: FUNNY STORY GUYS BUT SINCE THIS FIC OPENS WITH PORN AND CLOSES WITH PORN I LEFT YOU A SNIP FROM THE MIDDLE INSTEAD LOL  
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****this fic has been relocated to tumblr to avoid deletion. my URL is meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeg(dot)tumblr, and you can find my fics under the tag "megan's stuff".****

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><p><strong>Smile Like You Mean It<strong>

(insert sex scene 1)

So for the past four months, you and Kaltherzig have gotten together every few days and fucked the day away in a hotel somewhere. Usually, you go to the Best Western outside town, because nobody asks questions, and Kaltherzig calls you when he's in the mood, and you kinda-sorta spend your time awaiting his phone calls.

Liz thinks it's hot, of course, and usually asks if she can watch. When a week passes without a call from Kaltherzig (unheard of, considering that the longest you two've gone without boning is three days), she suggests that you go see him at the clinic.

"No offense, dude," she shrugs, "but you get really cranky without a good dicking every other day."

Sure, you reply with a few choice swearwords, but it's not a bad idea to go see Kaltherzig.

The clinic is pretty empty when you enter thirty minutes later, and you stretch over the counter to yank Arthur's pink earbuds out so he'll pay attention to you.

"Good afternoon, arsewipe," he greets cheerfully.

"Fuck you too. Doc in?"

"Which one? We've got three, mate."

"You know which one."

"Ah, so the one you're boning. Let me think..." Arthur trails off with a concentrated frown, and then he shoots you a glare and continues, "No. Now go away, I've got more interesting things to do than listen to you. And you should really stop MyFacing your Kino records - I could kick your arse any day of the week and twice on Sunday."

"Wha - you hacked my MyFace? Are you shitting me?" you gape, grabbing the computer moniter and turning it so you can see the webpage, and _damn_, it is definitely your MyFace. "How did you even get my password?"

"I have my ways. Please let go of the monitor, it's worth more than you are."

You comply, and prop your elbow up on the countertop. "So Kaltherzig's seriously out?"

"Yep. Won't be back for a few weeks." Arthur's apathetic gaze returns to the computer, and he rests his chin in his palm as he scrolls through (presumably) your MyFace profile. Bitch. You make a mental note to change your password as soon as you get home.

Something inside you twists uncomfortably - he went out of town and didn't tell you? You're sure it's just your overactive libido complaining, but... "He's allowed to just leave like that?" you scoff, arching a brow.

Arthur watches your expression closely, and you open your mouth to make a gay joke, but he leans forward, and glances from side to side as if to check for eavesdroppers (you sincerely doubt that the elderly lady and her grandson sitting behind you would care for what Arthur has to say), and gestures with one long finger for you to come closer, and then he whispers, "But you _know_ how women are. So demanding! Why, Camille practically dragged him out by the teeth! It's been ages since they went on vacation, though - if _I _was her, I'd have divorced his sorry arse years ago."

"What?" Your stomach plummets, and the dubious look on Arthur's face really doesn't help matters. In the same second the edge of his mouth quirks upward, and he continues with a relishing smile.

"I can't understand how she's put up with him for six years - ten, technically, but you only start counting after they tie the knot."

Your stomach plummets, and the self-satisfaction on the bastard's face incites a bitter taste at the back of your mouth. He isn't done, though, and he leans back, mock surprise all over his face. "Don't tell me you didn't _know_..."

"No," you grit out. "I didn't."

"Oh. Oh, my. Well, as long as you haven't gone and fallen in _love _with him or anything, it doesn't matter. Because something else that doesn't matter is how good of a lay you are - he's been with Camille for ten years, as I said, and he wouldn't leave her for anything."

Now you feel about to vomit, and you force a smile. "No, of course not," you manage, turning and walking out so you don't have to see the stupidly smug grin on Arthur's face when he notices how distraught you are.

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><p>"I'm not in the mood," you groan to Liz later that evening. You lay on your stomach with your face buried in a pillow and the blanket yanked up over your head, trying to sleep or suffocate yourself or whichever comes first, because you feel so shitty and so fucking stupid right now that it doesn't matter anymore. The embarrassment of kinda-sorta-hoping that Kaltherzig wasn't just using you as a tight ass burns bright and hot in your stomach, and you really wanna punch someone but Liz is the only person in sight and if you punch <em>her <em>she'll tear your jaw off. And then you'll have to walk around like that chick from that one horror movie, and that would be so unawesome.

"I know what you _are_ in the mood for," taunts Liz, who sits next to you in panties and a t-shirt (because you're currently interested in a very married German doctor and Liz is too much of a sister for you to get hard over), "and his name is Ludwig."

Your jaw works. "Nope. Nope, I am most definitely _not _in the mood for him."

Liz probably just rolled her eyes, because she sounds indignant when she replies, "Look, man, I know he's kinda hitched, but that doesn't matter - he's still good sex, right? You're always in the mood for him, and don't you deny it." Then her weight vanishes, and she adds, "Still, I think we should totally go clubbing. You'll be in the mood for it as soon as we get out."

"No, I won't." Your voice sounds muffled because of the pillow you're currently trying to inhale, but Liz understands just fine and flops onto your back. "Owwwww. Bitch."

"Gillie-willie, _please_? We haven't gone clubbing in ages - hell, not since you started banging Kaltherzig regularly, anyway. And, and, I went shopping yesterday and I bought you a pair of skinny jeans at Vans, and you'll love them."

She pulls the blanket down, and lies on her stomach next to you. "Seriously, though. Your moping is so uncharacteristic. Normally, nothing gets your egotastic ass down."

"Tell you what," you say, rolling onto your back and facing her, "_you_ can go clubbing, and go home with the first hottie you see, and leave me alone for the next day or two. Sound good?"

"No. That sounds like every other weekend for me."

"Liz, can this wait? I'm kind of in the middle of a crisis here."

"Like hell you are. You need to get out, broseph, before you wind up all isolated and depressing."

Of course, ten minutes later, Liz has you up and dancing the skinny-jean-dance, trying to get the black-and-white monstrosity on. "Jesus, Liz," you gasp, and Liz lowers her eyeliner applicator with a groan before stalking over to you and hooking her fingers in the belt loops.

It takes a bit longer and a dual effort, but eventually the pants are on. You think they're a bit tight, but as you wait to enter the club, they garner you a fair number of hungry glances. Liz giggles and nudges you in the stomach with her elbow as soon as you pass inside, and suggests something about people getting the wrong idea. "Despite your obviously depressed expression and the practically-edible gayness radiating off your delectable ass, people will totally think we're together if I stick around."

Do you really look depressed? Damn. "Bullshit. You just found a hot guy."

Liz laughs, and snakes an arm around your waist, hugging you loosely. "Not yet. Actually, you know what, come with me to the bar - if I remember right, the bartender here is one hot piece of ass!" she shouts. You still just barely hear her over the blasting music.

"Nah. Aren't I designated driver?" you reply as she pulls you over to the bar, flashing flirty smiles at pretty much everyone you pass.

"I'm not planning on going home with you," she smirks, licking her lips as the bartender comes into view. Yeah, you gotta admit, he is pretty hot - dark curls, glimmering green eyes, and tanned skin, wearing a casual black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows - and he's definitely making eyes back at Liz.

You groan. "Dude, I am not in the mood to see you sucking face. You go, have fun, do whatever horny twenty-something coeds do as long as it doesn't get you killed, because I am _not_ paying rent on my own."

"Sure thing, love," she giggles. "But come over with me and have a few first. Sorry to sound like the stupid bitch who gets everyone killed in a horror movie, but you seriously need to loosen up." She slinks over to the blacklight-illuminated bar, pulling you along by the hand, and when you stop in front of the gleaming white counter the bartender leans up with his eyes dancing between you and Liz.

"What can I get you two?" he shouts, traces of a Spanish accent evident in his sultry voice.

Liz's eyes flash hungrily, and she orders one of those strangely-titled drinks (a sex in the shower, if you heard right), and she's definitely gonna score with the bartender, because one does not simply reject Liz Hedervary. You roll your eyes and pat her ass before moving over, hoping to grab attention from the other bartender (a girl with dark hair parted around her neck) so you don't have to interrupt Lizzie and her soon-to-be boytoy with your request for a simple gin and tonic.

Now, you don't listen to techno if you can avoid it, so you've got no idea what the stereos are blasting. It sounds nice, though, and the pounding in your head feels nostalgic - Liz was right, you haven't been clubbing in months. God, it was like you'd gotten _married_ or something. You shudder, because the idea of a not-quite-boyfriend holding you back is just so unawesome it burns.

And maybe because you aren't really convincing yourself. But maybe that's also why, when a large hand settles on your hip, you turn your head to shoot a sly grin at the perpetrator rather than push him away angrily, like you would've done if you didn't have this horrible self-pitying irritation bubbling in your stomach. The man behind you is tall - taller than Kaltherzig, maybe? You have to look up to see them both, anyway, so you're not sure - and distinctly Eastern European, with a prominent nose and curiously pale eyes. The scarf wrapped loosely around his throat looks neon purple in the ultraviolet lights, and his black shirt stretches taut over his muscular arms.

And he's pretty cute - not gorgeous, like Kaltherzig, but definitely charming. His face looks kind of babyish, mostly because of his full cheeks, but his jaw angles sharply and he's probably at least eight or nine years older than you. And he looks like he wants to ravish you right there. It's a club, so he very well might.

"Nice pants," he comments in a Russian accent, smiling lewdly and stroking his fingers down your thighs. "They leave so very little to the imagination."

You have half a mind to retort with something snappy about how they're also cutting off circulation to your balls, but instead you sidle back against his broad chest and grin, "Ooh, bust. Maybe I should let you see what you're missing."

His grin widens. "Can I buy you a drink?"

You regard him with a wry smirk tugging at your lips. "You married?"

He flashes a ringless hand at you, and pulls you closer with a strong arm around your waist. "Completely and totally unhitched."

"Then sure. I could use the buzz."

Liz shoots you a wink and a grin from another side of the square bar area when she sees you and the dude walk up together. You roll your eyes and widen your eyes, shaking your head and nonverbally asking where _her_ hottie's gone, and in the time she takes to lean over and speak to her sexy bartender, your new partner ordered you something and you didn't even catch the name. "What is this?" you ask him, cradling the old-fashioned glass curiously.

"Kiss me slowly," he leers, reaching for his own rum and coke.

"And...this one?" You barely finish the one in your hand and the bartender slides a highball glass toward you.

"Guess."

Sipping at it, you pull a face. "Ew, I taste green apple."

"Oh, you don't like cock'n balls?"

You snort, and very barely avoid spraying alcohol all over the bar, because _damn_ if that isn't the funniest drink title you've ever fucking heard.

(insert more drinking and sex scene 2)

**OX CUT IS OX SO GO FIND THE REST ON TUMBLR**


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